The Promise
by Irnysian
Summary: He was a King, cast from his throne by a bloody rebellion, and happy to be free. But what is happiness worth when you can't share it with someone? How is it happiness if you can't share it? And would you find someone to share it with?    One-Shot


To say that he was free from his former position would be an overstatement. He would never be free from such a profession, especially a profession where one was unwillingly thrust into the devil's maw, for the good of other living beings. True, at first he had been fine…he had not hated his duties, and he had been just. But when the threat of an unmerciful death was held over one's head like a blade, the usual response to such events was to change one's ways to accommodate for a tragedy.

Albion hated him for it. He was insane, a tyrant…power-hungry and paranoid. He had heard all the criticism with a blank face, a mask of neutrality that he had hoped would save him from the worst of the onslaught. Then it got worse, and his young face had been marked by all the frowning, from all the worry and anger his body had been forced to deal with; he looked tired, sad, and the scar on his mouth remained as a constant reminder to the failure he would surely face if he didn't tighten his grip just a little more.

There had been no time to do more than glance at possible wives, and when he did turn his attention on someone, they paid him only the ceremonial courtesy owed to a king, but otherwise, attempted to shrug his attentions off. He had no hopes of marrying, no hopes of having an heir to the throne, an heir to take over when he passed away. And that didn't sit well in his stomach, all those years. Of course, his sister could take over, but she had always seemed so naive, so vulnerable…he had to keep her safe from the world, and that meant keeping her in the castle, meant that she couldn't know about the plight of the commoner.

When she had realized his tyranny, when she had seen him for the ugly man he had become, she and her companions fled. He tried to find her, at first, but he couldn't let anyone know how serious it had become. When he found out their plan to take over…he was hurt by what he knew should have been betrayal. But it wasn't; it was guilt. His own sister, the child he had raised, or tried to, since their father passed away, was trying to take his place on the throne, to caste him down and become Queen.

He fought it. He fought it so hard, he was sure he would have killed himself because of the stress, if they had not made their way to the castle so soon. It was not that he wished to remain on the throne, to be the tyrant no one wanted, but he did not want to see Albion leveled by a damned spirit!

Then she had spared him. She had looked at him, with those eyes so full of hatred and pity, and listened to his words, his repetition of the line he had flung at her so carelessly, so cruelly. And she spared him, even as she looked upon him with a face that screamed at him, for the death of her childhood love, for the treatment of her allies, for the treatment of her own self.

And so he was free. He was given a chance to pack his things, to gather what he wished; he was given a bit of money, and a promise that he could stay in the castle, hidden, if he never left. It was a secret promise, one given to him by his sister: she would shield him, just as he had shielded her. But he refused, and went on his way to find a home, secluded from it all.

He tried to live. He attempted to love. Neither worked well for him; living meant looking around at the torment he had caused, and knowing that he couldn't change a thing now, just as it meant that he would have to take care of himself, and become even more alone than he had been in the castle. Loving…well, that meant finding someone who cared for you, who wanted you. No one looked on him with pity, or kindness, or even courtesy anymore. How could he have possibly found love in such a time, when the world still hated him?

So, he stayed in his home in Millfields, a home separate from the others, and only went out at night. At night, he could wander without eyes burning holes into him, without the need to shield himself from the occasional rock, thrown by misbehaved children while their parents were turned from him. He could walk out to the middle of Bower Lake, and relax under the stars.

In that year, the new Queen had made the people love her, and somehow managed to make enough money for the army. And when the Crawler's forces reached their shores, he could hear the fighting from inside the castle, where he was too scared of the shadows to move from his hiding place, the one he had rushed to as soon as plans had been made and the alarm sounded.

His sister cried for days after the fight was over. While people tried to clean the streets, and repair the damage, she cried. He send out the request for a statue to be made, and under the guidance of multiple sculptors it was made in days. They honored Walter as a hero, put the statue in the castle gardens, behind their parents' mausoleum, and had a service for him. Afterwards, he tried to comfort his sister, and she wanted none of it, instead shooing him with the promise of calling later.

And so he went back, where he was free, and alone. His walks were longer now, with no more threat looming over their heads. He spent more time on the island in Bower Lake, and less time shielding himself. And it was on these walks he saw her, and on these walks that he first felt compelled to make his presence known.

She was tall and thin, maybe only a few inches shorter than himself. She wore no fancy clothes, just a skirt that went to her ankles, and a blouse, but she walked barefoot, and kept her hair loose, where it was allowed to sway at her waist as she walked. She was beautiful…and she looked right at him, no glaring, no rock-throwing. Just a stare.

Perhaps it was because he was in ordinary clothes - he had stopped wearing fancy things halfway through the first year of his sister's reign - or because he didn't quite look like himself…it was true, after the fighting, he had stopped shaving every day, and had let his hair do what it wished, so he had a two-day beard, and hair that hung limply around his face. Whatever the reason, she waved at him, with the most amazing smile on her lovely face, and began walking away.

He came back the next day, hoping to see her again. And like magic, there she was; wearing the same clothes, her hair brushed, with bracelets that jingled on her wrists and ankles. And she smiled at him again, that same beautiful smile…and it was that smile that made him follow her when she started walking away, that made him call out to her. She said nothing, but stopped and looked back at him with pity in her eyes.

The next day, he made a point to shave, and slick his hair back. He wore nicer clothes, and went out to the spot they had met, and just waited. Again she came, and again she made music as she walked. She wore a dress today, long and simple, and her hair was the same as it had been. This time, she stopped in front of him, and that smile came back to her face as she stared up at his own. And that's how they stayed for a while, standing in the middle of a lake, smiling at each other.

He walked her home that night. She walked with her arm in his, and said nothing the entire trip. When they got to the edge of the series of bridges that led to the islands that Driftwood was located on, she stopped, glanced up at him, and said nothing other than her name. Then she left, leaving him to watch her walk away, yet again, knowing only a name, and the town where she lived.

She didn't come the next day, and so he went back home and went to bed. Of course, now he couldn't sleep, so he sat there, saying her name over and over again to himself. He drifted off like that, and when he woke the next morning, his neck hurt. Under his breath, he cursed, but got up anyway to was he and dress, and make himself breakfast. It was during this time, while he stood next to the stove, that a knock came at the door. When he opened it, expecting a guard or an angry noblewoman, he found her standing there, staring.

They had breakfast together that morning, and for the first time, had a conversation. She said she didn't care who he was, he said he couldn't believe she would actually risk being seen with him, she said it wouldn't matter if he was a Balverine, she would be seen with him. And then they spoke of stars, and the lake, and of his home…when she asked about what life had been like in the castle, he wormed away from the question and gave her some vague answer, promising that he would tell her later. She told him she would hold him to that promise, and he only smiled.

When she left, she asked him if she could come back; his only answer was a kiss on her cheek.

The next day was dull, and he stayed in bed. The day after, however, was nerve-racking; she came by, dragged him out of the house, and took him to Driftwood, to her home. She lived in a caravan, off on its own, much like his house was, and she had her own fire outside, for her use only. She explained that people never came to her unless they needed to buy something, and motioned for the booth nearby. They spent the day laying on the beach, and sitting near the fire, waiting for their meals, and finally, that night, they spent their time in her caravan, just talking.

That night, they fell asleep together: he slept on her small bed, and she slept curled up next to him, his arms wrapped around her waist.

A year later, they were married. He sold his home, and hired help to build them a little house on that beach. He called on his sister once a month, and took his wife with him; they spent a night in the castle, every month, and ate breakfast with the Queen, before leaving again, to go home. And, like he had promised, he told her about life in the castle.

It was the first promise he had kept, but it wouldn't be the last.


End file.
